Surprise flashes in his eyes. He knows what she does for a living. He’s likely made the same wrong assumption as me—that Storm is made of steel. That’s not the case though. Far from it.
He nods and gives me a wink. Clearing his throat, he says, “I’ve made reservations for seven-thirty.” Stepping forward, he offers Storm his arm. “We should head out now, Nora. The place is down by the water. It’ll take a while to get there with traffic.”
She looks up at him and smiles, all fuss over flowers vanishing.
Good. Take the lead. Smart, Dan. Two points.
“Have fun. We won’t wait up!” I catch a flash of Storm’s crimson cheeks before the door is shut and locked, bringing back my dour mood.
I end up working that night without Storm. I need the distraction. When last call sounds and Trent doesn’t show up or text, my disappointment is paralyzing. Why would he come, though, I remind myself. I screamed like a lunatic at him on the sidewalk and told him to stay away.
Trent doesn’t come visit me at Penny’s the next night. Or the night after that. Three days later, I think I might lose my mind. Whatever rage coursed through me the day of the grief session is overshadowed by a new void. A Trent void. It throbs like a deep ache through every fiber of my being. I crave his presence, his body, his voice, his laugh, his touch, his everything.
I need him.
I need Trent.
On Thursday at noon, I sit at our kitchenette in my short shorts and tank, shoveling Cheerios into my mouth and staring at my phone as if willing a text to come through. Finally, I suck back a mouths’ worth of air and force my thumbs to work out a message.
Me: Any interest in a matinee?
I sit at my table and gawk at the stupid thing, wondering if he’s already deleted my text, or if he’s even bothered to read it. I consider pressing my ear up against the wall between our apartments to see if I can catch any “crazy bitch” comments out of him. But that doesn’t sound like something Trent would say, even if it were true. Which is it.
A whole five minutes later, after sinking every last one of my Cheerios into my milk, my phone beeps. I drop everything and grab it.
Trent: What do you have in mind?
Flutters stir in my chest. Damn flutters! I hadn’t thought that far ahead. I have no idea what’s playing. I decide to be lighthearted.
Me: Depends. You okay with nudity?
This time, Trent’s response comes right away.
Trent: Define nudity.
Okay, good. He’s playing along.
Me: Well … first I take my top off …
I nibble on my fingernail, waiting to see what he comes back with. I don’t get a response. Maybe I went too far, too soon. Maybe he’s still annoyed with me. Maybe … I hear a door slam shut. A shadow passes by our window and a second later, someone is pounding on my apartment door.
It has to be Trent.
I run to the door and throw it open, struggling to conceal my eagerness. There he is, in a pair of jeans and a loose t-shirt, his hair slightly mussed, bright blue eyes spilling over my body, settling on my chest for a long moment. I’m not wearing a bra and there's no doubt he can see my ni**les’ reaction to him. When that gaze lifts back to my face … whoa … it’s just the right mixture of anger, frustration, and smoldering hot to make me bite my bottom lip. And that’s all it takes to push him over the brink.
“God, Kacey,” he growls and takes two quick steps in to slam against my body, his hands quickly seizing my biceps as his mouth claims mine. Dipping my head back, he forces his tongue into my mouth, demolishing me with a depth of need I’ve never experienced before. This is the real Trent, I realize.
Unleashed.
I struggle to stay upright as my body slackens under his intensity. Leading me backward, Trent sandwiches me between himself and the back of the couch and I quickly become aware of how turned on he is.
Suddenly I’m off my feet and perched on the headrest, Trent’s hips fitting snug between my thighs. His arms fold around me. One hand clutches the back of my neck, while the other sweeps my hair to the side to expose my neck. His lips slide first to my throat, and then along my jaw line, up to my ear.
“You enjoy torturing me, sending mixed messages, don’t you, Kacey?” It comes out in a growl, pulsating through every single one of my nerves. Then his mouth is back on mine, this time even hungrier, more insistent, and it’s all I can do to get a breath in. He presses harder against me as a hand slips under the hem of my shirt and climbs to cup the swell of my breast, his thumb stroking my nipple, shooting a current through to my depths.
The sudden Trent onslaught threw me completely off my game—all my senses assaulted. But I finally catch a handle on my wits, enough to will my hands to his chest, my fingers raking along his abs to hook tight around his belt buckle. I yank him hard against me until his erection digs into me. “Is this clear enough?” I growl back. “I’m not the one who wants to take things slow.”
Trent breaks free, a wild dark look in his eyes, as if he’s shocked. He pulls me down off the couch and then, spinning on his heels, he storms out of our apartment, yelling, “don’t send any more f**king texts like that!”
I’m left standing there, shocked, speechless, and turned on as hell. He’s angry? He’s angry! He’s f**king angry! I stomp over to the table and snatch my phone.
Me: What the Hell was that?
It takes two minutes but my phone beeps with a message:
Trent: You enjoy testing my will power. Stop torturing me.
What? Me torturing him? He’s the one with this stupid, “thou shalt go slow” crap!
Me: One little text hardly qualifies as torture.
Trent: It’s not just the one text.
Me: Well then come back here.
Trent: No, I told you we’re taking this slow.
Me: I think that ship sailed with your little stare down game the other morning. According to the very wise bible, we’re an old married couple.
I smirk with my bible comment. Aunt Darla would have a coronary if she knew how I was using it to my advantage. The smile is torn clean off my face when my phone chimes again.
Trent: You need help.
I stare at those three words for a long moment, gritting my teeth. It’s not a surprise to me that he says it. He’s said it before. Somehow though, seeing it in twelve point font feels different. Official. I don’t respond.
A minute later …
Trent: You’ve been through a terrible ordeal and you’ve bottled everything up. You’re going to explode one day.
Here we go. I rub my forehead with frustration. Persistent fool.
Me: What? You want the gory details about how I lost my parents, best friend AND boyfriend, all in one night? Does that kind of thing get you off?
That fire inside me rages again, the same one from three days ago when he forced me into that therapy session. I put the phone down and inhale deeply, trying to douse it before it takes control.
I can’t stop myself from reading the next text when the phone chimes.
I want you to trust me enough to tell me about it. Or someone, at least.
Me: This isn’t about trust! I’ve told you that already! My past is my past and I need to bury it where it belongs—In. The. Past.
Trent: You’re vulnerable and I’m taking advantage of you by letting things like what just happened, happen.
I groan with exasperation.
Me: Please, take advantage of me! I’m giving you permission!
